Toad Marsh in the southeastern corner of Buckland is a very small marsh, but large enough to hide three men, if the men in question are natural-born woodsmen, like the hardy folk from Ithilien unquestionably were. The colony of river-toads inhabiting the marsh was hardly a deterrence to it’s visitors, and neither was any other form of wildlife living there, although the climate was colder than what the men had grown used to down south in Ithilien. The winter was just beginning, and it was one of the last days when the croaking of the toads still filled the night air before they went to hibernate through the cold season. The amphibians were already moving very slowly, like sleepwalkers.
The Rangers of Ithilien did not dare make fire out of fear that a hobbit from one of the nearby villages might spot it and come investigate. They had no need for fire. The Rangers were accustomed to hardships and hard life with no comforts. They had brought enough dried meat and hardtack to sustain themselves, and if they ran out they could eat the slimy toads, raw, if need be. They had eaten worse things as part of their training.
Their mission was simple. They had entered Buckland through the Old Forest and left their horses there. The man they knew as The Southerner had told them to hide in Toad Marsh and wait for the morning. The Southerner himself was hiding somewhere around Buckland, not too far from the ferry, and would come to Toad Marsh with three watchmen from Bree and two hobbits in tow. Their task was to kill the watchmen with a volley of arrows and then retreat into the Old Forest with The Southerner and the hobbits. The Southerner would then lead them through the forest to meet someone they knew only by the name ”Sharkey”.
”I don’t like this”, one of the men said, a tall man with blue eyes, light brown hair and weathered, ruggedly handsome features.
”What’s there not to like, Baindir?” asked another, a man with darker complexion and black hair and mustache.
”I don’t like any of it, to be fair, Myrnon”, said Baindir. ”We are going to kill watchmen of Bree. It’s almost like killing Tower Guards of the Citadel.”
”Corrupt watchmen”, Myrnon countered. ”They would have killed the one honest guard with them before getting here. They’re no better than common brigands. Pond scum.”
”And what about the hobbits?” Baindir pressed on. ”They look so small and helpless… almost like children!”
Silence fell between the three men. They were hardened, ruthless men, hand-picked by Túrher for their callous natures and blind, unquestioning loyalty to Túrher’s orders, the realm of Gondor and the Rangers of Ithilien. But they weren’t exactly wicked men, and none of them was stupid. They all realized full well what awaited the poor little halflings in the hands of the mysterious Sharkey.
”Consider it the price of peace”, Myrnon said after a while. ”If we can get the Ring into Gondor, into Túrher’s hands, we can prevent the coming war entirely and save countless of lives. Isn’t a sacrifice of two hobbits worth the cause, regrettable as it may be?”
But Baindir wasn’t satisfied yet. ”And Bragol killed that Ranger. A Ranger of the North… are they not similar to us? Should we not consider them brothers in arms? And while Delioron might be nothing but a despicable spy from Minas Tirith, I’m not entirely convinced that the woman deserves the fate that was planned out for her.”
”The Ranger was a traitor to his own kind, selling secrets to a spy from Gondor. And the woman is no better. Just a spy… she has chosen her way of life, and so she must accept the consequences that come with that lifestyle.”
”I wonder”, Baindir mused, ”why the wizard Mithrandir gave the Ring to the hobbits? Why didn’t he bring it to Gondor in the first place? Why didn’t he keep it to himself? And why all this subterfuge from our part? Why didn’t Túrher try to talk to Mithrandir first? Maybe the wizard could have been convinced to…”
”Are you questioning the orders of Captain Túrher?” rumbled a third man, a robust, shortish man with a wide face. ”Your task is to follow orders, not to think. Leave thinking to Túrher, who has good reasons for doing things the way they need to be done. For the glory of Gondor. For Sauron’s downfall. You agreed to this command from Túrher, as did we all. We all knew we would have to do some questionable things in order to carry it out. Are you now having second thoughts? We’ve come too far for that now.”
Silence befell upon the Rangers again. First light of day broke through the dense growth of trees and branches of the Old Forest as morning dawned and the sun started climbing above the eastern horizon.
”Don’t move!” A sharp, sudden command broke the serene silence on the marsh. ”No sudden movements! Drop your weapons!”
The Rangers looked around them, bewildered, but didn’t see anyone. It was Baindir who thought of looking up first. And there they were, on the branches of the trees of the Old Forest, outstretched towards Buckland as if wanting to claim back what once belonged to the forest. Four hooded men, dressed in tattered cloaks and tunics not much different from what the Rangers of the South were wearing. A six-pointed star clasped their cloaks together. They all had their bows aimed at the men on the ground. The Dúnedain had arrived… the Rangers of the North.
The Rangers of Ithilien threw grim glances at each other. They all knew they had no chance to survive if they tried to resist or fight back… and yet, they could not be caught alive. It was a promise they had made to Túrher – they would not be caught alive.
With grim, desperate determination the three Rangers of Ithilien raised their bows against the Dúnedain.
